Water for Elephants
by notawriter17
Summary: Based on the novel Water for Elephants. I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THESE CHARACTERS OR THE STORYLINE! A veterinary student, is close to graduating when a terrible tragedy forces her to leave school. With nowhere else to go, she hops on a passing train and finds it belongs to a traveling circus. Quinn takes a job as an animal caretaker and meets Rachel, a beautiful performer.
1. Chapter 1

_**Water for Elephants **_

Chapter One

I'm twenty-three and sitting beside Dani Hale; or rather; she's sitting beside me, because she came into the lecture hall after I did, sliding nonchalantly across the bench until out thighs were touching and then shrinking away with blush as though the contact were accidental.

Dani is one of the only four women (including myself) in the class of '31 and her cruelty knows no bounds. I've lost track of all times I've thought _Oh God, oh God, she's finally going to let me, _only to be hit in the face with _Dear God, she wants me to stop NOW?_

I am, as far as I can tell, the oldest virgin on the face of the earth. Certainly no one else my age is willing to admit it. Even my bother Sam has claimed victory, although I'm inclined to believe the closest he's ever come to a naked woman was between the covers of his eight-pagers. Not too long ago some the guys on the football team paid a woman a quarter apiece to let them do it, one after other, in the cattle barn. As much as I had hoped to leave my virginity behind at Cornell, I couldn't bring myself to take part. I simply couldn't do it.

And so in ten days, after six long years of dissections, castrations, foalings, and shoving my arm up a cow's rear and more times I than care to remember. I, and my faithful shadow, virginity, will leave Ithaca and join my father's veterinary practice in Norwich.

"And here you can see evidence of thickening of the distal small intestine," says Professor Willard McGovern, his voice devoid of inflection. Using a pointer, he pokes languidly at the twisted intestines of a dead salt-and-pepper milk goat. "This along with enlarged mesenteric lymph nodes indicates a clear pattern of-"

The door squeaks open and McGovern turns, his pointer still buried in the doe's belly. Dean Wilkins walks briskly into the room and mounts the stairs to the podium. The two men confer, standing so close their foreheads nearly touch. McGovern listens to Wilkins' urgent whispers and then turns to scan the rows of students with worried eyes. All around me, students fidget.

Dani sees me looking and slides one knee over the other, smoothing her skirt with languorous fingers. I swallow hard and look away.

"Quinn Fabray?"

In my shock, I drop my pencil. It rolls under Dani's feet. I clear my throat and rise quickly. Fifty-some pairs of eyes turn to look at me. "Yes sir?"

"Can we have a word, please?"

I close my note book and set it on the bench. Dani retrieves my pencil and lets her fingers linger on mine as she hands it to me. I make my way to the aisle, bumping knees and stepping on toes. Whispers follow me to the front of the room.

Dean Wilkins stares at me. "Come with us," he says.

I've done something, that much is clear. I follow him into the hallway. McGovern walks out behind me and closes the door. For a moment the two of them stand silently, arms crossed, faces stern.

My mind races, dissecting to my every recent move. Did they find my roommates' liquor? Dear Lord-if I get expelled now, my father will kill me. No question about it. Never mind what it will do to my mother. Okay, so maybe I drank a little whiskey, but it's not like I had anything to do with the fiasco in the cattle-

Dean Wilkins takes a deep breath, raises his eyes to mine, and claps a hand on my shoulder. "Kid, there's been an accident." A slight pause. "An automobile accident." Another pause, longer this time. "Your parents were involved."

I stared at him, willing him to continue.

"Are they…? Will they…?"

"I'm so sorry. It was instant. There was nothing anyone could do."

I stared at his face, trying to maintain eye contact, but it's difficult because he's zooming away from, receding to the end of a long black tunnel. Stars explode in my peripheral vision.

"You okay, kid?"

"What?"

"Are you okay?"

Suddenly he's right in front of me again. I blink, wondering what he means. How the hell can I be okay? Then I realize he's asking whether I'm going to cry.

He clears his throat and continues. "You'll have to go back today. To make a positive identification. I'll drive you to the station."

XXX

TWO DAYS LATER I bury my parents, I am summoned to the offices of Edmund Hyde, Esquire, to hear the details of their estate. I sit in my hard leather chair across from the man himself as it gradually sinks in that there is nothing to discuss. At first I think he's mocking me. Apparently my father had been taking payment in the form of beans and eggs for nearly two years.

"Beans and eggs?" My voice cracks in disbelief. _"Beans and eggs?" _

"And chickens. And other goods."

"I don't understand."

"It's what people have, kid. The community's been hit right hard, and your father was trying to help out. He couldn't stand by and watch animals suffer."

"But… I don't understand. Even if he took payment in, uh, whatever, how does that make everything belong to the bank?"

"They fell behind on their mortgage."

"My parents didn't have mortgage."

He looks uncomfortable. Holds his steepled fingers in front of him. "Well, yes, actually, they did."

"No, they didn't," I argue. "They've lived here for nearly thirty years, my father put away every cent he ever made."

"The bank failed."

I narrow my eyes. "I thought you just said it all goes to the bank."

He sighs deeply. "It's a different bank. The one that gave them the mortgage when the other closed," he says. I can't tell if he's trying to give the appearance of patience and failing miserably or is blatantly trying to make me leave.

I pause, weighing my options.

"What about the things in the house? In the practice?" I say finally.

"It all goes to the bank."

"What if I want to fight it?"

"How?"

"What if I come back and take over the practice and try to make the payments?"

"It doesn't work like that. It's not yours to take over."

I stare at Edmund Hyde, in his expensive suit, behind his expensive desk, in front of his leather-bound books. Behind him, the sun streaks through lead-paned windows. I am filled with sudden loathing-I'll bet he's never taken payment in the form of beans and eggs in his life.

I lean forward and make eye contact. I want this to be his problem too. "What I'm I suppose to do?" I ask slowly.

"I don't know, kid. I wish I did. The country's fallen on hard times and that's a fact." He leans back in his chair, his fingers still steepled. He cocks his head, as though an idea has just occurred to him.

"I suppose you could go west," he muses.

It dawns on me that if I don't get out of this office right now, I'm going to slug him. I rise, giving him one last look and leave.

When I reach the sidewalk something else dawns on me. I can think of only one reason my parents would need mortgage: to pay my Ivy League tuition.

The pain from this sudden realization is so intense I double over, clutching my stomach.

XXX

I had tried going to school but I couldn't. I ended up just leaving class during an exam, ignoring the teacher's request to come back. I couldn't stay after every. I had to leave.

I walk until the edge of town and then veer off to follow the train tracks. I walk until after dark and the moon is high, and then for several hours after. I walk until my legs hurt and feet blister. And then I stop because I am tired and hungry and have no idea where I am. It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here.

From somewhere nearby I hear water trickling, and I pick my way toward it, guided by the moonlight.

The stream is a couple of feet wide at most. It runs along the tree line at the far side of the clearing and then cuts off into the woods. I peel off my shoes and socks and sit at its edge. I lie back on the back, resting my head on a flat stone while my feet dipped in the water, soothing my sores.

A coyote howls in the distance, a sound both lonely and familiar, and I sigh, allowing my eyes to close. When it is answered by a yipping only a few dozen yards to my left, I sit forward abruptly.

The faraway coyote howls again and this time is answered by a train whistle. I pull on my socks and shoes and rise, staring at the edge of the clearing.

The train is closer now, rattling and thumping toward me: _CHUNK-a-chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk-a-chunk…_

I wipe my hands on my thighs and walk toward the track, stopping a few yards short. The acrid stink of oil fills my nose. The whistle shrieks again-

_TWE-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-E-_

A massive engine explodes around the bend and barrels part, so huge and so close I'm hit by a wall of wind. It churns out rolling clouds of billowing smoke, a fat black rope that coils over the cars behind it. The sight, the sound, the stink are too much. I watch, stunned, as half a dozen flat cars whoosh by, loaded with what looks like wagons, although I can't quite make them out because the moon had gone behind a cloud.

I snap out of my stupor. There are people on that train. It matters not a whit where it's going because wherever it is, it's away from coyotes and toward civilization, food, possible employment maybe even a ticket back to Ithaca, although I haven't a cent to my name and no reason to think they'd take me back.

And what if they will? There is no home to return to, no practice to join.

More flat cars pass, loaded with looks like telephone poles. I look behind them, straining to see what follows. The moon slips out for a second, shining its bluish light on what might be freight cars.

I start running, moving the same direction as the train. My feet slip in the sloping gravel it's like running in sand, and I overcompensate by pitching forward. I stumble, flailing and trying to regain my balance before any part of me comes between the huge steel wheels and the track. I recover and pick up speed, scanning each car for something to grab on to. Three flash by, locked up tight. They're followed by stock cars. Their doors are open but filled by the exposed tail ends of horses.

This is odd I take note, even though I'm running beside a moving train in the middle of nowhere.

**TO BE CONTUINED…. **


	2. Chapter 2

_**Water for Elephants **_

Chapter 2

I slow to a jog and finally stop. Winded and very nearly hopeless, I turn my head. There's an open door three cars behind me.

I lunge forward again, counting as they pass. One, two, three

I reach for the iron grab bar and fling myself upward. My left foot and elbow hit first, and then my chin, which smashes onto the metal edging. I cling tightly with all three. The noise is deafening, and my jawbone bangs rhythmically on the iron edging. I smell either blood or rust and wonder briefly if I've destroyed my teeth before realizing the point is in serious danger of becoming moot I'm balanced perilously on the edge of the doorway with my right leg pointed at the undercarriage.

With my right hand I cling to the grab bar. With my left I claw the floorboards so desperately the wood peels off, under my nails. I'm losing purchase I have almost no tread on my shoes and my left foot slides in short jerks toward the door. My right leg now dangles so far under the train I'm sure I'm going to lose it. I brace for it even, squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my teeth.

After a couple of seconds, I realize I'm still intact. I open my eyes and weigh my options.

There are only two choices here, and since there's no dismounting without going under the train, I count to three and buck upward with everything I've got. I manage to get my left knee up over the edge. Using foot, knee, chin, elbow, and fingernails, I scrape my way inside and collapse on the floor.

I lie panting, utterly spent.

Then I realize I'm facing a dim light. I jerk upright on my elbow.

Four men are sitting on rough burlap feed sacks, playing cards by the light of a kerosene lantern. One of them, a shrunken old man with stubble and a hollow face, has an earthenware jug tipped up to his lips.

In his surprise, he seems to have forgotten to put it back down. He does so now and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"Well, well, well," he says slowly. "What have we here? It's not everyday a pretty lady jumps onto a moving train,"

Two of the men sit perfectly still, staring at me over the top of fanned cards. The fourth climbs to his feet and steps forward.

He is a hulking brute with a thick black beard. His clothes are filthy, and the brim of his hat looks like someone has taken a bite out of it. I scramble to my feet and stumble backward, only to find that there's nowhere to go.

I twist my head around and discover that I'm up against one of a great many bundles of canvas. When I turn back, the man is in my face, his breath rank with alcohol. "We don't got room for more whores on this train, blondie. You can git right back off."

"Now hold on, Blackie," says the old man with the jug. "Don't go doin' nothing rash now, you hear?"

"Rash nothin'," says Blackie, reaching for my collar. I swat his arm away. He reaches with his other hand and I swing up to stop him. The bones in our forearms meet with a crack.

"Woohoo, " cackles the old man. "Watch yourself, lady. Don't you go messin' with Blackie."

"It seems to me maybe Blackie's messing with me," I shout, shoving him away.

Blackie lunges. I fall onto a roll of canvas, and before my head even hits I'm yanked forward again. A moment later, my right arm is twisted behind my back, my feet hang over the edge of the open door, and I'm facing a line of trees that passes altogether too quickly.

"Blackie," barks the old guy. "Blackie! Let her go. Let her go, I tell ya, and on the inside of the train, too!"

Blackie yanks my arm up toward the nape of my neck and shakes me. "Blackie, I'm tellin' ya!" shouts the old man. "We don't need no trouble. Let her go!" Blackie dangles me a little further out the door, then pivots and tosses me across the rolls of canvas. He returns to the other men, snatches the earthenware jug, and then passes right by me, climbing over the canvas and retreating to the far corner of the car.

I watch him closely, rubbing my wrenched arm.

"Don't be sore, kid," says the old man. "Throwing people off trains is one of the perks of Blackie's job, and he ain't got to do it in a while. Here,"he says, patting the floor with the flat of his hand. "Come on over here."

XXX

I shoot another glance at Blackie.

"Come on now," says the old man. "Don't be shy. Blackie's gonna behave now, ain't you, Blackie?"

Blackie grunts and takes a swig.

I rise and move cautiously toward the others.

The old man sticks his right hand up at me. I hesitate and then take it.

"I'm Will," he says. "And this here's Mike. That's Bill. I believe you've already made Blackie's acquaintance." He smiles, revealing a scant handful of teeth.

"How do you do," I say.

"Mike, get that jug back, will ya?" says Will.

Mike trains his gaze on me, and I meet it. After a while he gets up and moves silently toward Blackie.

Will struggles to his feet, so stiff that at one point I reach out and steady his elbow.

Once he's upright he holds the kerosene lamp out and squints into my face. He peers at my clothes, surveying me from top to bottom.

"Now what did I tell you, Blackie?" he calls out crossly. "This here ain't no whore. Blackie, get on over here and take a look. Learn yourself the difference."

Blackie grunts, takes one last swallow, and relinquishes the jug to Mike.

Will squints up at me. "What did you say your name was?" "

"Quinn Fabray."

"You got blonde hair."

"So I've heard."

"Where you from?"

I pause.

Am I from Norwich or Ithaca? Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?

"Nowhere," I say.

Will's face hardens. He weaves slightly on bowed legs, casting an uneven light from the swinging lantern.

"You done something, mam? You on the lam?"

"No," I say. "Nothing like that."

He squints at me a while longer and then nods. "All right then. None of my business no-how. Where you headed?"

"Not sure."

"You outta work?"

"Yes sir. I sure am."

"Ain't no shame in it," he says. "What can you do?"

"About anything," I say.

Mike appears with the jug and hands it to Will. He wipes its neck with his sleeve and passes it to me. "Here, have a belt."

Now, I'm no virgin to liquor, but moonshine is another beast entirely. It burns hellfire through my chest and head. I catch my breath and fight back tears, staring Will straight in the eyes even as my lungs threaten to combust.

Will observes and nods slowly. "We land in Utica in the morning. I'll take you to see Uncle Al."

"Who? What?"

"You know. Alan Bunkel, Ringmaster Extraordinaire. Lord and Master of the Known and Unknown Universes."

I must look baffled, because Will lets loose with a toothless cackle. "Kid, don't tell me you didn't notice."

"Notice what?" I ask.

"Shit, boys," he hoots, looking around at the others. "He really don't know!"

Mike and Bill smirk. Only Blackie is unamused. He scowls, pulling his hat farther down over his face.

Will turns toward me, clears his throat, and speaks slowly, savoring each word. "You didn't just jump a train, mam. You done jumped the Flying Squadron of the Benzini Brothers Most Spectacular Show on Earth."

"The what?" I say.

Will laughs so hard he doubles over.

"Ah, that's precious. Precious indeed," he says, sniffing and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Ah, me. You done landed yer ass on a circus, mam."

I blink at him.

"That there's the big top," he says, lifting the kerosene lamp and waving a crooked finger at the great rolls of canvas. "One of the canvas wagons caught the runs wrong and busted up real good, so here it is. Might as well find a place to sleep. It's gonna be a few hours before we land. Just don't lie too close to the door, that's all. Sometimes we take them corners awful sharp."

XXX

Three, I awake to the prolonged screeching of brakes. I'm wedged a good deal farther between the rolls of canvas than I was when I fell asleep, and I'm disoriented. It takes me a second to figure out where I am.

The train shudders to a stop and exhales. Blackie, Bill, and Mike roll to their feet and over. He leans down and pokes me.

"Come on, mam," he says. "You gotta get out of here before the canvas men arrive. I'm gonna try to set you up with Crazy Joe this morning."

"Crazy Joe?" I say, sitting up. My shins are itchy and my neck hurts like a son of a bitch.

"Head horse honcho," says Will. "Of baggage stock, that is. Finn don't let him nowhere near the ring stock. Actually, it's probably Rachel that don't let him near, but it don't make no difference. She won't let you nowhere near, neither. With Crazy Joe at least you got a shot. We had a run of bad weather and muddy lots, and a bunch of his men got tired of working Chinese and moped off. Left him a bit short."

"Why's he called Crazy Joe?"

"Don't rightly know," says Will. He digs inside his ear and inspects his findings. "Think he was in the Big House for a while but I don't know why. Wouldn't suggest you ask, neither."

He wipes his finger on his pants and ambles to the doorway.

"Well, come on then!" he says, looking back at me. "We don't got all day!" He eases himself onto the edge and slides carefully to the gravel.

I give my shins one last desperate scratch, tie my shoes, and follow.

XXX

We are adjacent to a huge grassy lot. Beyond it are scattered brick buildings, backlit by the predawn glow. Hundreds of dirty, unshaven men pour from the train and surround it, like ants on candy, cursing and stretching and lighting cigarettes. Ramps and chutes clatter to the ground, and six- and eight-horse hitches materialize from nowhere, spread out on the dirt. Horse after horse appears, heavy bob-tailed Percherons that clomp down the ramps, snorting and blowing and already in harness.

Men on either side hold the swinging doors close to the sides of the ramps, keeping the animals from getting too close to the edge.

A group of men marches toward us, heads down.

"Mornin', Will," says the leader as he passes us and climbs into the car. The others clamber up behind him. They surround a bundle of canvas and heave it toward the entrance, grunting with effort. It moves about a foot and a half and lands in a cloud of dust.

"Morning, John," says Camel. "Say, got a smoke for an old man?"

"Sure." The man straightens up and pats his shirt pockets. He digs into one and retrieves a bent cigarette.

"It's Bull Durham," he says, leaning forward and holding it out. "Sorry."

"Roll-your-own suits me fine," says Will. "Thanks, John. Much obliged."

John jerks his thumb at me.

"Who's this pretty lady?"

"A First of May. Name's Quinn Fabray."

John looks at me, and then turns and spits out the door. "How new?" he says, continuing to address Will.

"Real new."

"You got her on yet?"

"Nope."

"Luck to ya." He tips his hat at me. "Don't sleep too sound, mam, if you know what I mean." He disappears into the interior.

"What does that mean?" I say, but Will is walking away. I jog a little to catch up.

There are now hundreds of horses among the dirty men. At first glance the scene looks chaotic, but by the time Camel has lit his cigarette, several dozen teams are hitched and moving alongside the flat cars, pulling wagons toward the runs. As soon as a wagon's front wheels hit the sloped wooden tracks, the man guiding its pole leaps out of the way. And it's a good thing, too. The heavily loaded wagons come barreling down the runs and don't stop until they're a dozen feet away.

In the morning light I see what I couldn't last night the wagons are painted scarlet, with gold trim and sunburst wheels, each emblazoned with the name, BENZINI BROS MOST SPECTACULAR SHOW ON EARTH.

As soon as the wagons are hitched to teams, the Percherons lean into their harnesses and drag their heavy loads across the field.

"Watch out," says Will, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward him. He braces his hat with his other hand, the lumpy cigarette clenched in his teeth.

Three men on horseback gallop past. They swerve and cross the length of the field, tour its perimeter, and then swing back around. The one in the lead turns his head from side to side, shrewdly assessing the ground. He holds both reins in one hand and with the other retrieves flagged darts from a leather pouch, flinging them into the earth.

"What's he doing?" I ask.

"Laying out the lot," says Will. He comes to a stop in front of a stock car. "Joe! Hey, Joe!"

A head appears in the doorway.

"I got a First of May here. Fresh from the crate. Think you can use her?" The figure steps forward onto the ramp. He pushes up the brim of a battered hat with a hand missing three of its fingers. He scrutinizes me, shoots an oyster of dark brown tobacco juice out the side of his mouth, and goes back inside.

Will pats my arm in a congratulatory fashion. "You're in, mam."

"I am?"

"Yep. Now go shovel some shit. I'll catch up with you later."

The stock car is an ungodly mess. I work with a kid named Sam whose face is smooth as a girl's. His voice hasn't even broken yet.

After we shovel what seems like a cubic ton of manure out the door, I pause, surveying the remaining mess. "How many horses do they load in here, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Jesus. They must be packed in so tight they can't move."

"That's the idea," Sam says. "Once the wedge horse loads, none of em can go down."

"Flag's up," he growls. Sam drops his shovel and heads for the door.

"What's going on? Where are you going?" I say.

"The cookhouse flag's up."

I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand." "

"Chow," he says.

Now that I understand. I, too, drop my shovel.

XXX

Canvas tents have popped up like mushrooms, although the largest one obviously the big top still lies flat on the ground. Men stand over its seams, bending at the waist and lacing its pieces together. Towering wooden poles stick up through its center line, already flying Old Glory. With the rigging on the poles, it looks like the deck and mast of a sailboat.

All around its perimeter, eight-man sledge teams pound in stakes at breakneck speed. By the time one sledge hits the stake, five others are in motion. The resulting noise is as regular as machine-gun fire, cutting through the rest of the din.

Teams of men are also raising enormous poles. Charlie and I pass a group often throwing their combined weight against a single rope as a man off to the side chants, "Pull it, shake it, break it! Again pull it, shake it, break it! Now downstake it!"

The cookhouse couldn't be more obvious never mind the orange and blue flag, the boiler belching in the background, or the stream of people heading for it.

The smell of food hits me like a cannonball in the gut. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach twists-with hunger.

XXX

The sidewalls of the cookhouse have been raised to allow for a draft, but it is divided down the center by a curtain. The tables on this side are graced with red and white checked tablecloths, silverware, and vases of flowers. This seems wildly out of sync with the line of filthy men snaking behind the steam tables.

"My God," I say to Sam as we take our place in line. "Look at this spread."

There are hash browns, sausages, and heaping baskets of thickly sliced bread. Spiral cut ham, eggs cooked every which way, jam in pots, bowls of oranges.

"This ain't nothin'," he says. "Big Bertha's got all this, and waiters, too. You just sit at your table and they bring it right to you."

"Big Bertha?"

"Ringling," he says.

"You worked for them?"

"Uh ... no," he says sheepishly. "But I know people who have!"

I grab a plate and scoop up a mountain of potatoes, eggs, and sausages, trying to keep from looking desperate. The scent is overwhelming. I open my mouth, inhaling deeply it's like manna from heaven. It is manna from heaven.

Will appears from nowhere. "Here. Give this here to that fella there, at the end of the line," he says, pressing a ticket into my free hand.

The man at the end of the line sits in a folding chair, looking out from under the brim of a bent fedora. I hold out the ticket. He looks up at me, arms crossed firmly in front of him.

"Department?" he says.

"I beg your pardon?" I say.

"What's your department?"

"Uh ... I'm not sure," I say. "I've been mucking out stock cars all morning."

"That don't tell me nothin'," he says, continuing to ignore my ticket. "That could be ring stock, baggage stock, or menagerie. So which is it?" I don't answer. I'm pretty sure Camel mentioned at least a couple of those, but I don't remember the specifics.

"If you don't know your department, you ain't on the show," the man says. "So, who the hell are you?"

"Everything okay, Ezra?" says Will, coming up behind me.

"No it ain't. I got me some smart-ass whore trying to filch breakfast from the show," says Ezra, spitting on the ground.

"She ain't no whore," says Camel. "She's a First of May and she's with me."

"Yeah?

"Yeah."

The man flicks the brim of his hat up and checks me out, head to toe.

He pauses a few beats longer and then says, "All right, Will. If you're vouching for her, I reckon that's good enough for me." The hand comes out, snatches my ticket.

"Somethin' else. Teach her how to talk before she gets her ass kicked by one of the whores, will ya?"

He sits down and immediately shoves half a piece of bread into his mouth. He chews on it for a minute and then looks across at me. "Oh go on, don't be sore. I'm just looking out for ya. You saw how Ezra was, and Ezra's a pussycat. Sit yourself down."

I look at him for a moment longer and then step over the bench. I set my plate down, glance at my manure-stained hands, wipe them on my pants, and, finding them no cleaner, dig into my food anyway.

"So, what's the vernacular then?" I say finally.

"They're called kinkers," says Will, talking around a mouthful of chewed food. "And your department is baggage stock. For now." "

"So where are these kinkers?"

"They'll be pulling in any time. There's two more sections of train still to come. They stay up late, sleep late, and arrive just in time for breakfast. And while we're on the subject, don't you go calling them 'kinkers' to their faces, neither."

"What do I call them?"

"Performers."

"So why can't I just call them performers all the time?" I say with a note of irritation creeping into my voice.

"There's them and there's us, and you're us," says Will. "Never mind. You'll learn." A train whistles in the distance. "Speak of the devil."

"Is Uncle Al with them?"

"Yep, but don't you go getting any ideas. We ain't going near him till later. He's cranky as a bear with toothache when we're still setting up. Say, how you making out with Joe? Had enough of horse shit yet?"

"I don't mind."

"Yeah, well I figure you for better'n that. I been talking to a friend of mine," Will says, crushing another piece of bread between his fingers and using it to wipe grease from his plate. "You stick with him the rest of the day, and he'll put in a word for you."

"What he'll be doing?"

"Whatever he says. And I mean that, too." He cocks an eyebrow for emphasis.

XXX

CAMEL'S FRIEND IS a small man with a large paunch and booming voice. He's the sideshow talker, and his name is Cecil. He examines me and declares me suitable for the job at hand.

I along with Jimmy and Wade, two other men deemed presentable enough to mix with the townsfolk are supposed to position ourselves around the edges of the crowd and then, when we get the signal, step forward and jostle them toward the entrance.

The sideshow is on the midway, which teems with activity. On one side, a group of black men struggles to put up the sideshow banners. On the other, there's clinking and shouting as white-jacketed white men set up glass after glass of lemonade, forming pyramids of full glasses on the counters of their red and white striped concession stands. The air is filled with the scents of corn popping, peanuts roasting, and the tangy undertone of animal.

At the end of the midway, beyond the ticket gate, is a huge tent into which all manner of creatures is being carted llamas, camels, zebras, monkeys, at least one polar bear, and cage after cage of cats.

Cecil and one of the black men fuss with a banner featuring an enormously fat woman.

After a couple of seconds Cecil slaps the other man's head. "Get with it, boy! We're going to be crawling with suckers in a minute. How are we gonna bring them in if they can't see Lucinda's splendors?"

A whistle blows and everyone freezes.

"Doors!" booms a male voice.

All hell breaks loose. The men at the concession stands scurry behind their counters, making final adjustments to their wares and straightening their jackets and caps. With the exception of the poor soul still working on Lucinda's banner, all the black men slip through the canvas and out of sight.

"Get that goddamned banner up and get out of here!" Cecil screams.

The man makes one final adjustment and disappears.

I turn. A wall of humans swells toward us with squealing children leading the way, yanking their parents forward by the hand.

Wade jabs an elbow in my side. "Psssst... You wanna see the menagerie?"

"The what?"

He cocks his head at the tent between us and the big top. "You been craning your neck since you got here. Wanna take a peek?"

"What about him?" I say, jerking my eyes toward Cecil.

"We'll be back before he misses us. Besides, we can't do nothin' till he gets a crowd going."

Wade leads me to the ticket gate. Old men guard it, sitting behind four red podiums.

Three ignore us. The fourth glances at Wade and nods.

"Go on. Have a peek," says Wade. "I'll keep an eye on Cecil."

I peer inside. The tent is enormous, as tall as the sky and supported by long, straight poles jutting at various angles. The canvas is taut and nearly translucent sunlight filters through the material and seams, illuminating the largest candy stand of all. It's smack in the center of the menagerie, under rays of glorious light, surrounded by banners advertising sarsaparilla, Cracker Jack, and frozen custard.

Brilliantly painted red and gold animal dens line two of the four walls, their sides propped open to reveal lions, tigers, panthers, jaguars, bears, chimps, and spider monkeys even an orangutan. Camels, llamas, zebras, and horses stand behind low ropes slung between iron stakes, their heads buried in mounds of hay. Two giraffes stand within an area enclosed by chain-link fence.

I'm searching in vain for an elephant when my eyes come to an abrupt stop on a woman.

She looks so much beautiful than Catherine I catch my breath the plane of her face, the cut of her hair, the slim thighs I've always imagined were under Catherine's staid skirts.

She's standing in front of a row of black and white horses, wearing pink sequins, tights, and satin slippers, talking to a man in top hat and tails.

She cups the muzzle of one of the white horses, a striking Arabian with a silver mane and tail. She lifts a hand to push back a piece of her light brown hair and adjust her headdress. Then she reaches up and smoothes the horse's forelock against his face. She grasps his ear in her fist, letting it slide through her fingers.

There's an enormous crash, and I spin to find that the side of the closest animal den has slammed shut.

When I turn back, the woman is looking at me. Her brow furrows, as though in recognition.

After a few seconds I realize I should smile or drop my eyes or do something, but I can't. Eventually the man in the top hat puts his hand on her shoulder and she turns, but slowly, reluctantly.

After a few seconds she steals another glance. Wade is back.

"Come on," he says, slapping me between the shoulder blades. "It's showtime."


End file.
